Do YOU have your copy yet? :)

Check out my 2017 genius work of fiction, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR.

THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is a fast-paced, intense, literary mystery set in Seattle in the nineties. Sometimes dangerous and often humorous, this novel is a deep, epic adventure packed with vivid dialogue. The slick use of voice is fresh, addictive, and engaging; it'll stick with you. Story: 424pp. Story contains strong language. ;)

Much love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Meadow

Meadow

Glenwood Gardens 

Love, Me↓

One Buck, One Life

From the archives...

One Buck, One Life

Man, I was caught up. Running late, I was obsessed, trapped in busy thinking. I gripped the steering wheel. I need sleep, I miss mountains, thermal shirts, hit the men's section. That's right, I was a mad woman on a driving mission. Cat food, I'm a bad person, paper towels, Pepsi, coffee, what is he doing, what am I doing. On and on, my brain chattered. Cruising along, taking the turns too fast, I suddenly got stuck behind a mini van that was going about twenty. So I tailed Van Man, hoping that he would speed up. Oh yeah, toilet paper and gum. 

No luck. Van Man barely rolled along, repeatedly hitting the brakes, turning into a souped-up teeter totter.

I sulked in my seat, tortoise-crawling down the road. Jesus, I said to myself, watching the brake lights blink in front of me. I turned the radio on and off.

Still, the van was barely moving in front of me.

I knew that I was going to be really late.

Then, suddenly, the Van Man came to a full stop in the middle of the road.

Startled, I hit my brakes, assuming that Van Man was going to jump out of the car and yell at me for tailing him. Nervous, I waited for the attack. But I was dead wrong.

Van Man just sat there in the middle of the road.  

Frozen meals. Studying the scene a little closer, I saw a large, ghostly shape move in front of the van. I squinted; it was a huge, majestic deer -- a king-sized buck with an enormous set of antlers. He was beautiful, and he wasn't in a hurry either. Slowly, he made his way across the road, one graceful step at a time. When he almost reached the other side, he stopped, looking up. There, he stared at me, gazing through my windshield, seeming to look me right in the eye. He paused a little, fiercely staring. Then, ever so calmly, he went on his way into the woods.

This world is so much bigger than me.

And I realized that I was a trespasser in his home. If it weren't for the Van Man holding me back, I would've hit that beautiful deer. And what a magnificent creature he was. I believe in angels. That soul, that dignified buck. Dear god.

C.A. MacConnell

The Porch Swing

I chew on the accident –
my swollen lip
that you bit last night
when we shared oranges,
sucking them down
end to end, lip to lip,
burning and breathing in
African incense.
Outside, like fresh fire,
sleet cracked the ground,
and god made more
than a dusting. Later,
we sat on the metal swing
and rocked. At this show,
my toes barely touched
the porch. With fingertips,
you played my hands,
pressing into my life lines.
I gripped the chains.
Wind whipped my hair.
I pumped harder,
and we rose higher,
until everything rattled.
I hung on like a hangnail.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Wolf

Wolf Hiding

Cincinnati Zoo

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Lost Glove 33

Lost Glove 33

C.A. MacConnell

All for Show: Full Circle.

They say some things live in the blood, you know. Some time back, I was taking a walk, and I randomly ran into one of my first riding instructors. It was a quick encounter that immediately sent me back in time. Reminiscing about horse people and barns, I thought about my first horse show, which was a true disaster, and the memory of it made me start cracking up in my car...

I was little, in the four foot tall range, and I was supposed to ride this small, chestnut gelding, a schoolhorse named Blazen Two Socks, who was a pretty good fit for my stubby legs. Usually, he wasn't too difficult to maneuver. The horse was appropriately named, since he had a pronounced white blaze and two white socks. He wasn't complicated, but the little guy definitely wasn't my favorite, and I think he sensed that. Late Night, a calm, sweet, dark bay gelding, and Honda, a little, wild, neurotic, white gelding, were my favorites, but neither of those guys did jumping lessons for some reason (probably for good reason).

Now, schoolhorses at Red Fox Stables were usually extremely reliable; the staff was ultra-experienced and utterly careful, but when dealing with horses, of course there was always the unknown factor. Seems that old Blazen had a few secret tricks stored up in his compact body.

We had been practicing for weeks, and I had the course down, so I thought. The day before the show, we had a "schooling session," otherwise known as practice. Waiting behind the indoor ring, the students sat on their horses, checking stirrup length, tightening girths, and trying to stay still. No one wanted his/her horse to shift too close to someone else's. No one wanted a horse fight. Still, horses pinned back their ears here and there, flattening them, looking tough. And yeah, some creatures let out half-hearted kicks and squeals. The people didn't talk much. I was mute, and as was my custom, I was way too intense.

Usually, the instructors didn't open the enormous indoor ring back door, but that day, with great effort, the staff slid it wide open so we could practice coming in the back one at a time. In the real show, we'd have to enter this way. It was my turn to practice, so I trotted right into the indoor ring, then picked up a canter, and Blazen and I practiced the jumping course like superstars. Well, at first. After the last jump, old Blazen was pretty bored and/or excited about his performance, so instead of calmly stopping and walking outside to join the rest of the riders and horses, Blazen went momentarily insane, madly galloping out the back door, running smack into several horses, shaking everybody up. That's right, everyone was yelling at me, pissed as hell. 

I held on until Blazen jumped over a huge ditch, and my little body went flying right into the ditch. Like a cartoon character, I sat there shaking my head, confused and embarrassed. I checked my arms and legs, moving everything. My body seemed to be working all right, so I sat there, chilling in the ditch, covered with mud. Like a wild mustang stallion, Blazen ran off to freedomland. No worries. Someone tracked him down before he got flattened by a semi truck barreling down Route 50.

The instructors mulled it over, and I guess they felt sorry for me, so they decided to give me a new horse for the show day. Old Blazen went back to his stall where he belonged, but that guy had a shit-eating grin on his muzzle, I swear. Now the new plan was for me to ride Redford -- not because he was awesome, but because no one wanted to ride him. On the ground, Redford was known for being mean as hell. Like Blazen, Redford was also appropriately named; he was a strange pinkish, godawful red color. Part draft horse and part dinosaur, Redford was damn ugly and huge. Well, his head was huge, and it was definitely out of proportion to his body. To me, since I was so vertically challenged, he looked like a red monster. I'd heard that Redford bit people when they tried to tack him up, but I knew that once I got up on his back, there shouldn't be too many problems other than that he was super slow. Usually, a rider had to start up a jet plane under Redford's ass just to get him to trot. Usually. 

Now, since my adventures with Blazen took a lot of time, I wasn't able to practice on Redford the day before. So the plan was that I would just show him cold turkey the next day. Well, the next morning, the morning of the big show, since Redford was so damn slow, the instructors handed me a crop, told me to canter him around fast, and then they sent me off to the side ring to gear up Redford for the ride. Get his attention, were the last instructions I heard. Well, I suppose I did a good job getting his attention because when the time came for me to ride Redford in the show ring, that horse was freaking flying. I remember hanging on to his mane, feeling the wind in my face even though we were in an indoor ring. Basically, throughout the course, I didn't do anything at all. I didn't move. I didn't steer. I was frozen, hanging on to that mane. Really, he did the course all on his own. Good thing he knew where to go. How, I have no idea.

At a hunter horse show, a course is usually comprised of eight jumps; that usually means four "lines." A "line" means one jump followed by another, and there are a certain number of canter strides that you must do in between the jumps in the line. Well, where we were supposed to do five strides, we did four (or a little less) each time, which means that we were going so fast, Redford took up some amazing ground. I finished the jumps, and we exited the ring like champs, but I was still clutching his mane. My fingers were bluish.

When I went out the back door, the instructors all looked at me in shock; their mouths all turned into big "O's." I heard things such as this:

"Wow, that was fast! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha."

"I've never seen Redford go that fast, ever."
"You looked like a speedy peanut up there!"
"Whoa."
"Oh my god."

"Whoa."

"Oh my god."

"Whoa."
"For the love of god, what was that?"

And then there were all of the grins, chuckles, and out-right cackles.

No one had ever seen Redford go that fast, and I don't think anyone had ever seen any of the schoolhorses go that fast either. One of the barn workers held Redford while I joined my parents in the barn lounge; they were cheering like crazy. See, they thought the whole point was to be the fastest, and they assumed that I was a child prodigy at riding. But with hunters, the whole point is not to go fast at all. The point is to canter in a nice, smooth rhythm, jump the lines correctly at a sane speed, and get the right striding. To put it bluntly -- I totally screwed it up and none of us had any idea. Basically, it was so bad, it was as if I scored a basket for the other basketball team, and my parents and I were clueless.

Now, later in life I learned about showing and striding and all that, but what I remember most about that first horse show was the speed, the fun, and how ridiculously excited we all were about the horrible ride. That's right, we were oblivious to the reality that my performance was absolutely hilarious. That day, it didn't really matter. Since I didn't know any better, I was just beaming at my ride, my light speed course. In some ways, not knowing was a gift.

Weirdly, I ended up getting third place; this was because the people in 4th, 5th, and 6th place had some major issues that were way worse than mine...like they probably knocked jumps over or trotted by accident. And I believe someone's helmet went flying off and landed in the ring dirt. But I was still pretty proud of my yellow ribbon. When I returned to Redford and showed him our winnings, Redford had a pained, angry look, and I knew he just wanted to go back to his stall and eat. Alas, I didn't feel like the horse whisperer, but I had my damn yellow ribbon, so I gave him a pat on the neck and thanked the jerk.

When I returned to the barn lounge, the older kids were cracking up, all whispering about my terrible, speed demon ride. Hearing them, I started coming to, realizing my ride was all wrong, but in my heart, I also knew that it was still the beginning of something, so I shrugged and clutched my yellow ribbon, checking out the snacks, feeling stubborn. And I thought to myself, I'll show you.

However awkward it was, it was definitely a beginning. Sucking at my first show made me work all the harder. And because I had to work hard at it, I didn't even realize it, but I was slowly learning how to pass on the wisdom of many trials and errors. I was learning how to become a good teacher. At fifteen, at the very same farm, I started teaching kids and adults. Years later, I was an assistant trainer there, and I got to watch my students practice for their first horse shows. Full circle. Hey now, wouldn't that be a good name for a horse? Has a nice ring to it...Full Circle. Hm...

Redford wasn't such a bad guy. Simply, he was making his way in the world like the rest of us, and I have a soft spot for him now. Thinking back, something has occurred to me -- Redford took care of me that day, and he did exactly what he was told to do. I took him to the side ring to wake him up, and he responded. Despite his rough looks, and although all throughout the barn he was known for his resentful attitude, wild eyes, and rumored biting and kicking, I think it was all for show. He never tried to hurt me. Not once.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Seagull

Seagull

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Relentless, and a Poem: Blanket

Relentless

Cleveland, OH. Nikon, b/w film

Blanket

Outside, the shy,
cold front
settles down
on our sky.
Inside, the air
turns thin
and mean.

We crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving.
I feel your slight
hand

on my collar

bone,

lifting up
the blanket.

C.A. MacConnell

Blues, Moon: Music, an Extension of Life

 Jukebox

Blues, Moon:  Music, an Extension of Life

Arthur Miller, Aleck “Big Boy” Crudup, Barbecue Bob, Big Joe Turner, Big Mama Thornton -- just a few names that come to mind. And there are so many more innovators who have touched me. Without knowing them, I consider them my friends. I listen to them, spend time with them, allow their stories to melt into mine. Any time of the day or night will do. And Bessie Smith, yes. I love the old, old Blues, the originals. It is the raw sound that gets me -- the gut-level feel, the rhythm, the deep and complex heart of it all. It bleeds out a certain desperate energy that stands the test of time, making a definite mark that can change the world through this: one soulfully rich creation.

Undeniably real.

These people lived and breathed music that came straight from their lives, and the sometimes gravelly, imperfect nature of it is perfection to me. Some recordings that I have are hard to hear, back yard albums, and I can almost imagine the scene -- the white house, the rocking chair, the porch, the chipped paint, the pot luck, the lover, and the lonely dog. Strangely, these rough, spontaneous songs both soothe me and call out to me, hitting me right smack in my chest's center. Many may sound familiar, as they have been redone so many times over the years, and yet they always have a primitive, wild, fresh feel. I believe there is genius in the green simplicity of these scattered songs and voices. Full of fierce intensity and charm, they put me right in the moment. Back then, people joined in, whoever was there. They were in it together.

When listening, I can almost see the smiles and the tears.

I believe that life is best here -- inside spontaneous, soulful gatherings. Downtown Roanoke, I used to frequent a tiny dive called The Full Moon Café. There, love was quick and wild. Tuesdays, the band Radar Rose led an open mic, and it often turned into a drum circle that lasted late into the night, sometimes early morning, and the crowds always spilled off into the square. The Full Moon, although it was grimy as hell, was one of the richest music venues I’ve ever experienced. Picture hippies with necks full of hemp, punks with Mohawks, kids with ink and pierced-up faces, homeless people, wealthy businessmen, college students, people from the mountains, people from the valleys, working men and women, skaters, misfits, and criminals. Everywhere, tattered plaid shirts and homemade jewelry. And the most interesting part about it was that we all hung out together. If people weren’t playing music, they drank, smoked, kissed, danced, and the scene was always absolutely random, but somehow, on any given Tuesday, it always proved to work out just right.

Reckless, yet I never saw a fight. What if the world were this way? Utterly spontaneous, yet peaceful. Places like this, songs like this, they scream out peace. Music -- a part of breath, motion, and the struggle for existence. There is an awesome presence buried within these honest words and notes. As it was in the old Blues, music can become an extension of life, when the words and melody come straight from the musician’s journey, straight from his or her veins.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Buck

Buck

Sharon Woods

Amazing. He was so close. And oh man, I almost stepped on a snake...he looked at me as if to say, "Hey girl, some of us live down here," then made some noise, and slithered away. I whispered, "Sorry."

C.A. MacConnell

Baby, Walk Right

Dark Horse

Camp Dennison, OH

Some flash poetry for you. Wrote this just now. Enjoy. Love, C.A.💕💕

Baby, Walk Right

Again, September wind rushes in,
carrying the sound

of red-tailed hawks,
and I'm surrounded

by the screech of it.
Look, the wings always

come back. Inside, they know.
No one ever reminds them

that it's their season.
Here, the fields are wild,

too-tall, and narrowly fenced-in;
some blades nearly touch

my thigh. Like prairie grass,
loose, calm waves sway yellow,

here and there singed
from another changed summer,

and outside every day,
but for the few fly nets,

these horses are naked.
First, I am muscle and manic

with the new, a baby
trying to prove myself.

We ache, made of bones
and skin, like them.

You and I live
for the strange, big eye,

the flight, the fresh-cut hay,
the hidden music

within animal silence,
and the clapping laughter

of the crowd.
Sometimes I get this life;

it makes sense to clean, feed,
sweat through the jeans,

and keep the blood
close to the heart.

It makes sense
to walk right

when leading the barefoot Paint
to the pasture,

making sure his hooves
strike the grass path,

rather than the gravel one,
because I see him squint,

and I know the journey must sting
without shoes.

C.A. MacConnell

From the Show Horse.

Me + Johnny Two Dot, a horse I trained not too long ago.

Met nine horses and three dogs today. One dog, Sally, is my favorite. She stuck near to me until I suggested that she pick up a shovel to earn her keep, and then she disappeared. Ha.

I'm all wound up, in a good way. Nice day full of hard work and new friends.

I love beasts and opportunity.

From the archives...from the point of view of the horse. Hope you dig it. Hope you're happy, C.A.


From the Show Horse

Reaching. Stretching. My neck. For hay, for grain.
I get the green hay, which is better.
My field friend, J.J., gets the yellow.
Last night, out with the boys, I heard that the white mare, Lily,
is having a baby. No,
it wasn't me. They won't let me near her,
but she's lucky. The big man feeds her
the sweet feed kind, which is like dessert,
so she'll probably gain...
a couple hundred. At her old home, her real name
was Emmi Snow, but nobody liked it
except for me.
It's sweaty in the barn, but we go outside after breakfast.
On the way, some don't have manners,
because they're mad at
inside. I don't mind. I know it's not
forever. When my shoulders lock up, I kick the stall wall,
and I chew on the wood. I can't stop chewing some days.
All the dark-haired ones tell me fast, soft words
that it's gonna be all right. The funniest man with the hat
cleans my dirty. I think he came from
somewhere. Then he stops and turns into smoke.
Then he rides on loud machines and gives me
an extra soft bed, and maybe his apple core, which is
happiness. But on the quiet day after two days of busy,
sometimes he doesn't show up.
And when he comes back, I think he might die,
but he gets better.
I thought I was going outside, but here comes my girl.
I lick some salt from the block and
stand tall. Keep going. For her. Today in the barn,
she leads me again. I’d follow her anyhow,
but she uses the rope. I breathe on her neck,
placing my hooves down; the right front stings a little
from the shoe man, but I won't tell her. I take it easy
on the right, tight side. Man, the work. But seeing her,
I come alive, feeling her fingers stroke and brush my black
mane. Mom had that shade too. One day, they put her
on the small barn with wheels, and she never came back.
J.J. always tells me they sent her to a rest farm, but he looks
backwards when he says it. I know she went to the
killers. I'm big, though. I'm five now.
Yesterday, the skinny vet came. I like that one. His hands
are soft, but bony and gentle. I don't like the fat one, or the one
who does my shoes. I admit I tried to kick him once.
My back has almost healed from the jumping crash,
but on rainy days,
my girl brushes me longer
than she should, just to be sure. I guess she knows
I'm still achy. I guess she knows that I was
trying, that the wreck wasn't my fault. Suddenly it hits me –
the sharpest air. Storm’s coming. I hear 32 hooves
shift at once. The oldest one and the sick one call out
warnings, always a dead giveaway. My girl cleans me,
and I know she thinks I'm handsome. Then she sweeps
the aisle, making cloudy dust. Each moment my body
is awake, I move for her. Even when I can’t feel my muzzle,
when it’s too cold to sneeze, I move for her. Later, if I stay in,
when the barn is dark, I spend minutes,
hours rocking
in the stall. Can’t sleep, can’t see, and if I lie down,
she might worry with morning. I listen to her breath,
letting it lift me, balancing steadily, without the wall.
I guess I love her, enough to know I don’t love another,
enough to recall the one who jerked me around. Later,
they'll give me a snack.
Hey, yesterday, she packed up
my bridle, her saddle, and her shiny, heavy tool box,
then gave me a bath, and the tall man cleaned my teeth.
My chewing is gonna be worse now. Looks like
we’re going somewhere. This must be what people feel like.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Chimes

Chimes

Milford, OH

:) Hope you like,

C.A. MacConnell

Shavings

 

Heart of It

Mason, OH

Shavings

Hand me a bandage. Earlier, I cut myself;
we are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.

Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.

I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.

The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic

chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Lunken Path

Lunken Bike Path

Cincinnati, OH 

Hm...the hawks are coming back. It's their season. :) My time of year. Hope you're smiling! Much love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

I'm Here. I've Got Your Back.

 

Hawk

Lunken Airport

I'm Here. I've Got Your Back.

A while ago, I was in the woods, about three and a half miles into a walk, when suddenly, I felt a great rush of air, and something soft brushed against my cheek. Startled, I stopped and looked left. Right there, on a log in front of me, a red-tailed hawk landed and turned to the side, looking back at me, seemingly grinning, as much as a hawk can grin. And I realized that what I had felt against my cheek were the hawk's wing feathers.

I studied him. He appeared to be an adult male, although I'm still a beginner when it comes to hawk sightings. Stunned, I looked at him and whispered, "Baby!" He wasn't a baby, but that's just what came out of my mouth, as if I were using it as an endearing term by a lover.

Still not moving, he looked back. Shadowed by the trees, he appeared absolutely beautiful and wise.

I moved a little closer. My heart fluttered, and then it felt warm, as if it filled up with something -- some kind of liquid gold, if you will, or, as I later thought -- absolute love. Literally, it felt as if the Spirit of the Universe were directly speaking to me, saying, "I'm here, I've got your back."

Frozen in place, seemingly unafraid, from the side, the hawk looked back at me sideways through one big, clear, open eye.

Thank you, I thought, bringing my hands together, pressing my fingers close in prayer.

And for a brief second, he continued to look at me through that unblinking eye, as if making sure I was all right. And then he flew away.

For a few moments, I stood on the path, completely mesmerized. My next thought was, No one is going to believe me. Then, smiling, I thought, Who cares, I saw what I saw, I felt what I felt, and I believe it, and it is magnificent. I have never heard of a hawk coming that close to a person, and there was really no reason for him to swoop down like that -- he wasn't after any prey or anything. No mission at all, other than to say hello to me. Simply, he flew across the path for fun. Unbelievably, his feathers brushed against my cheek, and then he sat on the log. It was for me, and only me. Truly, I was blown away.

About a year ago, there was another time when I was walking and a hawk flew right over my head; that one was nearly close enough to touch me, and I could feel the breeze of the flight, but I've never, ever had one actually touch me before, and I've never heard of it happening to anyone else.

Writing to you this morning, I'm still amazed by the experience. Chills. Some people see burning bushes, I guess. I had a hawk touch my cheek. Amazing.

Someone, something, a greatness, is there. Every now and then, if I open my eyes, I can see the universe reveal this divinity, literally touching my skin.

I used to feel an affinity with wolves. In the past few years, it's changed to hawks. Somehow, I've become more aware of these creatures, and now I feel that a Great Spirit is reaching out to me, letting me know this:  You are all right, just how you are, right here, right now, and I accept you and love you. Just checking in. I'm here. I've got your back. This is my version of God today; it changes with me, becoming new to me, and in turn, new to you.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: You'll Feel

You'll Feel

Milford, OH

Aw, this photo makes me grin...looks like love to me. <3

Sending out more queries, working hard. It's a lot of work, let me tell you. :)

Hope you're well. In the meantime...lookee over on the right side of this blog and check out all of the labels...fiction, poetry, essays...browse around when you're supposed to be working, ha.

Hope your day is beautiful, sincerely. I'll write you a new piece soon.

I have one free, signed book available...a copy of my 2017 novel, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. Just email me at camacconnell at gmail dot com, and I'll mail it to you. No catch. Just free art. :)

C.A. MacConnell

Sideburn

It is thick, thick,
then narrow,
then thicker.
A full-grown,
deep-angled,
tricky, wild,
steep stairwell
leading down
from floor two,
your ear,
stepping
all the way
to your jawline,
the landing.
Flatly, no,
shockingly,
it ends.
But in the white
space between
your hair
and cheek,
my finger becomes
the imaginary
razor, testing
the shaved line,
lingering
on the edge,
feeling the way
your smooth, hot,
strange skin
so easily leads
back into the hall,
back into the rough.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Training Wheels

Training Wheels

Glenwood Gardens

C.A. MacConnell